Silver Arrow Ch 01 04

Author's Note: My opening paragraphs may be offensive to some. I apologize to those who may be in that group. Please remember that these are the thoughts of a fictional character, and not necessarily those of the author. In addition, due to the length of this story, I have posted multiple chapters daily. My thanks to DaveT and ErikThread for their editing skills and helpful assistance.

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Silver Arrow

Chapter 1 Accidents Happen

There's a myth about fat people that they are almost always happy, fun-loving men and women. It is false. In fact, it isn't even close to being true. Most fat people are desperately unhappy. Why? Because they are fat. An object of ridicule in a world that prizes slim, elegant men and women.

Now, this is somewhat of a contradiction, of course. As the average adult population gets more and more overweight, fat people cease to be a noticeable minority and become ... part of the mainstream. We've even decided to categorize fat people as overweight, obese, and morbidly obese. And it isn't just adults any more either. Our children are following in the ever-deepening footsteps of their parents.

None of this will come as a surprise to anyone. It's been an ongoing topic of discussion for many years now. We've been blaming the fast food industry as the culprit, but the truth is, it's us. We're the guilty ones. We eat too much. We exercise too little. We piss and moan about our weight problems, but in the end, we keep on doing the things that perpetuate the problem.

So, where am I going with this? I am ... or was ... one of those people. I used to weigh two hundred sixty-five pounds. That's not so much if I were six-seven, but I am five-seven. Climbing the stairs to my second floor bedroom was an effort each and every time.

That bedroom on the second floor was in the house where I used to live. I don't live there any more. My ex-wife decided that I was unsuitable as a husband and role-model for our three children. After trying unsuccessfully for several years to get me to lose weight, she got rid of the whole body in one fell swoop. She divorced me.

Diane was a slim five-foot-two and stayed that way throughout our ten year marriage. She was dedicated to fitness and that included involving our children as well. She was a stay-at-home mom, so she had the time, whereas I was a working stiff pulling an eight-to-five shift. I was on my feet most of the day and, after fighting rush hour traffic, I was tired by the time I got home. The last thing I wanted to do was to jump into some shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers and head to the gym or go for a run.

You would think that the divorce would be motivation enough for me to get off my ass and do something about losing all that excess weight. Well, you'd be wrong. I was upset at my failed marriage and losing my children. I loved them dearly, just as I loved Diane. Worse than that, she found a job in another state and I was denied the privilege of seeing them frequently. In short, my life had turned to shit.

My job was to monitor the controls on a number of machines that added batches of pigment and chemical additives into various mixtures. The company I worked for, Traylor Coatings, made special paints and coatings for all sorts of exotic applications. Some of the mixtures were benign and not particularly special except that our objective in the plant was to produce a consistent product. If you ordered a particular formula with a particular color, our responsibility was to see that it was the same every time. Hence the need for sophisticated additive and mixing equipment.

Some of our products were toxic. They contained various chemicals that would resist rust, or mildew, or insects, or heat, or an assortment of things that could attack various surfaces. This area was in a separate room and access was restricted to specific personnel. As supervisor, I was one of those persons. Since many of the mixtures came in powdered form, we had to wear masks that included breathing apparatus. Breathing in some of the stuff we used could be fatal, so we all paid strict attention to the safety measures posted clearly on the outside and inside of that room.

Accidents happen. You can count on it. They are unplanned events that no one can predict. It was a Tuesday afternoon, a very hot July Tuesday, that one such accident took place. I had just entered the hazardous materials (HazMat) room and noticed immediately that the temperature in the room was well in excess of one-hundred degrees. There were three other men in the room at the time, and I could see that they were sweating profusely as they went about their work.

I picked up the phone and punched in the number for the maintenance department.

"Gerry, the damned air conditioning has crapped out again in the HM Room. I need someone here pronto."

"We're already on it, Doug," the voice came back. "It should be back on line in about ten or fifteen minutes. We had a leak in the coolant line."

"Okay. I'm going to stop the guys until it's on again. This place is a sauna and we don't need an event to happen when they're in this situation."

"Got it. I'll let the office know."

Gerry Silweitz was a good guy and knew his stuff. He would follow procedure just as I would. This place was too dangerous to have guys working this kind of heat unless it was an emergency.

"Okay, guys. Take a break. The air conditioning will be back on in a few minutes. Get out of here for now."

There wasn't a single objection to my instructions. They needed to get out of the sauna and cool off. In the meantime, I went on an inspection tour to make sure everything was shut down and in "safe mode."

I was about to leave the room when I noticed a container of fungicide powder looked as though the lid was improperly fitted. It was one of the smaller 35 lb. containers with a clamp style lid that would prevent spillage if it were accidentally dropped or knocked over. When I inspected it, the clamp was set but the lid was riding up on the lip of the base. That wouldn't do.

I remember exactly what happened next. I went to release the clamp and reset the lid before re-clamping it safely. Someone must have used muscle-power to force the clamp closed because the moment I went to release it, it snapped upward, smacking my mask and knocking it askew. I was stunned and stumbled backwards on impact, and with me came the container, dropping to the floor and spilling its contents over my feet and creating a cloud of dust in the immediate vicinity.

I was still groggy, but managed to pull the mask back in place, but I could see a crack in the visor and wondered if I were too late. I made my way to the exit, pushing the alarm as I went. Once out on the shop floor, I pulled off the mask to inspect it. I didn't like what I saw. A piece of the visor was broken and missing. I had no protection from the dusty powder that might have been in the air where I fell.

It was probably only seconds when two or three people came rushing up to me and asked what had happened. I explained it as simply as I could and showed them the mask. One of them called first aid, then the office. It seemed like I was surrounded by people within a minute or so.

They decided not to take any chances and whisked me off to the hospital for

examination. I remember the ambulance ride but I was distracted by the sick feeling and oncoming headache that was becoming more prominent with every passing minute.

They put me in intensive care and I was put on oxygen while they began a regular routine of extracting blood samples over the next several hours. I knew what they were doing. They were looking for toxins in my blood stream and if they found them, measuring the concentration. I was scared. I knew from my training and experience what this might mean. It might mean funeral services for Douglas Robert Hansen, age thirty-three.

They must have given me something to knock me out because the next conscious thought I had was the following morning. I felt like hell. I had a continuous feeling of nausea, a splitting headache, and muscle soreness that I don't ever recall feeling even in my feeble attempts at exercise. Once again, I knew what these symptoms meant. I had been poisoned and now it was a matter of just how severely. I wasn't unhappy that I lost consciousness again. I later learned I didn't wake up until Friday morning.

I had undergone two surgeries. One of my lungs was reduced in size and effectiveness after some contaminated and damaged tissue was removed. Apparently I was lucky that they didn't have to remove the entire lung. I also lost part of my stomach and intestine, again because of toxic contamination. God knows how many pints of blood I received in those first few days.

Since I didn't write this from the grave, you can pretty well guess I didn't die. There were times I wished I had, but I lived. It was a long, long process of recovery. I was living on intravenous since I couldn't keep anything even resembling food in what was left of my stomach. That didn't change until Thanksgiving and the idea that most of the country would be enjoying a big turkey dinner actually got my saliva glands operating again.

The first hint that I could manage solid food was the smell of the turkey dinner my roommate had that Thanksgiving Thursday. Normally, it would have set my nausea in motion, but this time, not so. In fact, I felt hungry. I buzzed the nurse and told her about it. Several hours later, my doctor stopped in for a visit.

"I understand you had a positive reaction to the smell of food," he said.

"Yes. In fact, I wanted some myself."

"Good. Very good. That's a big step. I'm afraid we're not going to start you off on a big turkey dinner, but we are going to gradually introduce you to some solid food. The sooner we can get you off intravenous feeding, the better. However, you must keep in mind that you'll not be able to eat large portions any more. You're probably going to have to eat smaller portions several times a day when this is over with."

"Oh. Like, how many times is several?"

"Four, perhaps five. Hard to tell this early. Let's take it a step at a time. In a little while we'll bring you some soup and crackers and see how you do with that."

"Yeah, okay." I wasn't overly thrilled by his prediction, but it was better than a life on I.V.

I had been getting up on my own for several weeks now. I could navigate to the bathroom, and after disconnecting the I.V. line, could shower, brush my teeth, and shave. But the guy in the mirror that looked back at me didn't look anything like Doug Hansen. He looked fifty years old ... or more, his brown hair already turning gray, and the wrinkled skin and watery eyes didn't improve his appearance. I began to realize just how long I had been in this hospital.

It was when I weighed myself that I got the biggest shock. The scale now read one hundred thirty-two pounds. The last time I had weighed anything like that was when I was fourteen. I had lost one hundred thirty-three pounds, almost exactly half my former body weight. I began to call it "The I.V. Diet." Maybe I could write a book and tell people how successful it was.

Chapter 2 Lucky Doug

"You're a very lucky man," Doctor Remminger reminded me. "You've survived a major incident with fairly modest permanent damage. You already know about your temporary diet restrictions. No spicy foods or condiments. One small drink of alcohol per day maximum. We have to let the stomach completely heal. And no strenuous exercise that isn't specifically prescribed by your physical therapist. Your lung needs more time as well. On the other hand, you can live a pretty normal life," he smiled.

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate all you and your staff have done for me. I feel like I've spent half my life in this hospital, even though it's only been five months. I'll be back in three months for my first checkup."

I rode out of the hospital in the obligatory wheelchair into the cold, wet daylight of Minneapolis. There was no one to meet me other than the cab driver who would take me to my apartment building. I would be on long-term disability for some time yet, so I wasn't worried about going back to work. I wasn't even sure if I would be allowed to return with my restrictions. Perhaps the company will sever me because they couldn't afford to take a chance on my health. I would be a liability.

I wasn't upset with Traylor Coatings. They were a good, responsible company and treated me more than fairly. All my costs were covered by the company's medical plan, and I had at least a year on L.T.D.I. if I needed it. A number of my fellow employees came to visit me at one time or another while I was in the hospital. That petered out over time, but I understood. Visiting people in hospitals is never fun. Half the time you're wondering if you might catch something while you're there.

I had written to my ex-wife to explain my circumstances and arranged for the company to forward part of my disability to her as child and spousal support. I got a letter back from Diane saying she hoped I would recover my health and thanked me for making the effort to help her. She was working now and was able to look after herself and the children. They were living in Louisville, Kentucky, and apparently enjoying their new home.

I was really limited in what I could do to keep myself entertained during the day. A half-morning of television told me that it wasn't an option. On top of that, winter was setting in and getting around was going to be restricted. A stroll in the park was pretty much out of the question. I attended to my physical therapy each day and I could feel the progress I was making. But that wasn't enough. I was already fed up with winter. Perhaps a warmer climate? Florida? There was nothing to stop me from heading south.

After my three month check-up in early February, I put my limited worldly possessions in storage and packed my five-year-old Subaru Outback with my clothes and other necessities. It was a bright, cold day when I pulled out of the Twin Cities and headed for Louisville. It was on the way to Florida, so I would stop in to see Diane and my children before continuing on. I had a little money saved from before the accident, and since I didn't have any expenses while in the hospital, I was hoping that it would sustain me while I traveled. The company's insurance carrier would continue to send part of my monthly payment to Diane and the balance would be deposited into my account. I could access it by ATM from almost anywhere.

It was 700 miles to Louisville via Chicago, and I had no intention of pushing myself. I was still in recovery mode, doing my morning and evening exercises, eating five times daily, and generally trying not to over-extend myself. Driving to Chicago seemed like more than enough for the first day. In fact, I packed it in at Rockford, tired from the first day's effort.

The route had been relatively free of snow or ice, but it was the concentration on my driving that produced the fatigue. I found a modest motel to spend the night and slept more soundly than I had in some time. It was a warning to me not to overdo my efforts. I wasn't quite ready to push myself.

It took some time to get through the Chicago area traffic the next morning, even though I left after nine o'clock. I was hoping the worst of rush hour would be done with. I shortened the day at Lafayette, Indiana, making the final run to Louisville an easy one. I would arrive at Diane's place around five in the afternoon, in hope that she would be home with the children.

I had doubts about how I would be received by Diane. Her letter during my stay in hospital was quite pleasant and thankful for my continuing to meet my financial responsibilities. Our divorce was something of mutual disappointment. Her disappointment in my inability to lose weight and my disappointment that she had given up on me and our marriage.

I hadn't alerted her that I would be coming to see her and the children. I thought it would be interesting to see how she reacted to the "new me." I'm sure it would be a shock. I examined myself in the mirror before I left for Louisville that morning and I was pleased with what I saw. The physical therapy was having its effects on my appearance. My skin was tighter on my frame, my face was leaner and perhaps, at least in my imagination, younger looking. My hair had a bit of gray along the sides, but I felt it helped my appearance. I had a new wardrobe of course, and I thought I looked good in it. I had gained a little weight, but was now stable at just under a hundred fifty pounds.

I found her house without difficulty thanks to a local map I had purchased at my last gas stop. Darkness had fallen as I sat in the car, wondering just what to say when she opened the door. The house was a bungalow, and seemed to be in good repair and in a decent, middle-class neighborhood. I was pleased about that. I wouldn't worry about the children's safety now, or Diane's for that matter.

At last I summoned my courage and got out of the car into the cold drizzle of a Thursday night and walked up to the front door. I heard the chimes and then footsteps. Adult footsteps. The front porch light came on and the door opened, revealing Diane, looking just as she had the last time I saw her.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she asked, not recognizing me yet.

"Hello, Diane. It's nice to see you again."

"Doug? Is that you?" She was clearly flustered as she realized it was me.

"Yes, it's me," I smiled, still not moving, waiting for her to invite me in.

"Come in ... please," she said, still quite ill at ease.

I stepped in, not trying to embrace her or even shake hands. I was about to say something when Debbie, our eldest, came into view.

"Dad!" she almost shouted. She had recognized me immediately.

"Yeah, it's me," I grinned.

"Billy, Sandy," she shouted, "come quick. It's Dad."

Debbie wrapped her nine-year-old arms around my waist and hugged me to her. I started to tear up. I couldn't help it. It had been almost a year since I had seen them and I was wondering what kind of reception I would have received. I shouldn't have worried.

Sandy, now four, and Billy, eight, came pounding into the living room and virtually attacked me.

"Daddy, Daddy, you're home," Sandy cried.

That was it for me. The tears came steadily now and I didn't attempt to hide them. Diane had stepped back and was watching this tableau with a slight smile and a few tears herself. I guess I took some heart from that. I had the cluster of my three children all trying to hug me at the same time. Sandy was attached to my left leg, Billy to my right arm, and Debbie still hanging onto my waist.

Diane got the children settled down, taking my coat and hanging it in the hall closet. I took that as a good sign. In the past, if someone was just coming for a short visit, she would put their coats on the tree by the front door. It looked like she was expecting me to stay a while.

"Can I get you something to drink, Doug?" she asked, trying to get the children to release me.

"I might have some tea ... if you're still a tea drinker that is."

"Yes, of course. Let me put the kettle on. You're staying for dinner," she added, not waiting for me to decline.

"Thank you. I'd like that. I'm sure we have a lot to catch up on."

The children wanted to know all about my accident and my stay in the hospital. Sandy, the youngest was the most direct.

"You're not fat any more, Daddy. I like you when you're not fat."

"Thank you, Sandy. I'm glad I'm not fat any more too."

"Did somebody hurt you and that's why you had to go to the hospital?" Billy asked.

"No. It was an accident. I got sick ... poisoned. They had to operate and give me all new blood and fix the things that got damaged." I was trying to keep it simple for them.